


at your service

by erebones



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Friends to Lovers, Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Tenderness, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23054560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Claude is struck by a mysterious illness, and Lorenz is determined to ensure his comfort, whatever it takes.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 29
Kudos: 257





	at your service

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be just some period sex pwp, but as usual it evolved beyond its original scope. It's also a gift for a friend, you know who you are! <3 
> 
> Content warnings and et cetera: Claude is a trans man, Lorenz is gender-nonconforming and uses he/him pronouns, there is no explicit gender dysphoria but Claude does get his period (twice) and there are references to fantasy transition aids and top surgery (pre and post-op). Terms I use for Claude's bits are: cunt, hole, erection, prick. The actual sexytimes don't happen until post-ts, if that's a concern for you personally.

“Where is Claude?”

Professor Byleth’s chalk clacks to a halt on the blackboard. “I believe he is ill today. He will not be joining us for class. Sit down, Lorenz.”

Lorenz makes a face but does as he’s told, ignoring the quiet snicker Leonie fails to hide behind her book. She leans over to Lysithea on her other side and whispers something he can’t make out, and they titter briefly, unbothered by Lorenz’s meaningful glare.

_Ill, eh? Most likely dosed himself with his own poison on accident_ , Lorenz think sourly. He unpacks his satchel onto the table, lining up everything precisely: scratch paper, charcoal, textbook, the two feet of scroll written on the strengths and weaknesses of black magic units on loose terrain Professor Byleth had assigned him. He chances a glance down the row. Lysithea’s scroll is bulkier than his, and tied with a pretty lavender ribbon. His pinches his lips shut and tries not to seethe. _A ribbon. Why didn’t I think of that?_

“Please have your assignments out for collection,” Byleth says. In front of him, Ignatz jumps and scrambles to search through his bag, stuffed full of loose papers and handmade brushes. Next to him, Raphael’s shoulders hunch. He has no scroll in front of him; just a new set of bandages on his hands from overworking himself in the training yard yesterday. Lorenz knows because he applied them, because Raphael was too scared to get in trouble from Manuela.

_“You’re two heads taller than she is and at least twice as wide; what have you to fear?”_

_“Aw gee I dunno, Lorenz. She’s just got this way of lookin’ at you like… like she’s disappointed. Except sterner.”_

_Lorenz arched an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look. “Like this?”_

_“Yeah! Ha! Exactly like that, how’d you know?”_

_Lorenz rolled his eyes and bent back to his work. “Never mind.”_

Professor Byleth walks down the rows, collecting everyone’s assigned scrolls, and Lorenz braces his chin in his hand moodily. It’s quieter without Claude in the front row, schmoozing (or attempting to schmooze) with their teacher and throwing out impertinent, often shockingly astute observations that Lorenz delights in picking apart. He wonders if Claude really is sick. He’s never missed a lecture in their five… almost six months of school. Not even when he had a cold, and passed his sniffles around to the rest of the Golden Deer.

_I wonder if it’s serious. Surely I would have heard from Professor Manuela if—but no. She is a discreet woman when it comes to the privacy of her patients._

Class drags on. Professor Byleth is a good instructor in the field, but their presentation skills leave something to be desired. It’s difficult at times just to keep his eyes open. Next to him, Leonie amuses herself by rolling up tiny balls of scrap paper and shooting them through a hollow reed at the back of Hilda’s head two rows up. There is now a small snowfall of spit-damp paper pellets strewn about her shoulders and in the long pink ropes of her hair hanging down her back. Hilda has yet to notice.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” Lysithea whispers to her. Leonie just shrugs and sticks another square of paper into her mouth. Lorenz sighs.

Any other day he would tell her off himself—or, failing that, alert Professor Byleth. But the empty seat at the front of the room has him feeling out of sorts, a strange nervousness coalescing in his stomach like writhing snakes. He wonders if Claude is faking. If he simply wishes to distance himself from his peers—from Lorenz.

_Is it my fault?_ he wonders sadly. His idle fingers fiddle his charcoal stick back and forth, back and forth, until the damn thing flips out of his hands and rolls under Ignatz’s chair. Leonie cocks an eyebrow at him. Lorenz scowls.

He has a spare in his bag, but he doesn’t wish to draw attention to himself by fetching it, so he sits with his hands folded and tries not to fidget. It’s difficult. He can’t stop thinking about what Claude is doing right this instant. Is he in pain? Is he asleep? Is he scribbling out his own assignment last-minute, or perhaps sitting and staring out the window, thinking of the night before last… late at night in the gardens… happening upon each other unexpectedly, snappish distrust shifting to mutual respect and understa—

“Lorenz.”

He jerks out of the starlit memory to find Professor Byleth staring at him with a cool, dispassionate expression. Everyone else is looking, too; out of the corner of his eye he can see Leonie suppressing a giggle behind her fist. A flush crawls up his cheeks but he ignores it, straightening his shoulders.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Would you like to share with the class why reason and faith magic cannot be wielded by flying classes?”

Ah. A simple question. Lorenz allows himself a small smirk and replies coolly, “The field of kinetic energy produced by a magical incantation disrupts a flying creature’s sense of balance and direction, and can cause grievous injury if used while airborne.”

“And why does this not effect a rider on the ground?”

Lorenz opens his mouth and shuts it again, less confident. “Er. Gravity…?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

He tries not to scowl—it’s his own fault for getting caught daydreaming—but from the look on the Professor’s face it isn’t working. “I believe it has something to do with the force of gravity negating the effects of the energy blast, Professor, but I’m afraid I cannot provide any further precision at this time.”

Professor Byleth’s lip twitches up at one side. Approval, Lorenz hopes. “Very good. Lysithea, can you explain the difference between Bolganone and Ragnarok?”

Lorenz lets himself slump slightly in his chair, blush fizzling. He really has to get a grip. What does it matter where Claude is? It’s none of his business. He will simply take the Professor at their word and go on with his day.

He lasts until lecture ends. Raphael is the first out the door, Leonie close on his heels as they argue fiercely about training regimens. Lorenz lets them blow past, holding his satchel to his chest for safekeeping before following with just a touch more restraint. He will return his books to his room, then pay a visit to the stables and take Damask out for a ride before dinner. And he will not think about Claude at all, or what he is doing, or whether he really is sick as the Professor claimed and not simply… avoiding him.

_“Fancy meeting you here, Lorenz. Snooping on me again, are you?”_

_“I was not—! What! I was simply… simply getting some air,” Lorenz sniffed, hands folded behind his back. The slim leather volume clasped in one fist dug into his lower spine as he prayed Claude wouldn’t pry any further._

_“Hey, easy!” Claude laughed, putting his hands out as if to placate him. “I was just surprised to see you, that’s all. You’re normally very precise about getting your beauty sleep.”_

_“Yes, well I… couldn’t sleep.” Lorenz shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. The fresh ink written into the pages of his journal seemed to burn through leather and parchment to scorch his hands, staining them black with his indiscretions. He gathered his courage and his grace, fumbling. “I came to the gardens to try and relax, but it seems I will not be getting any peace and quiet tonight.”_

_Claude’s perpetually cheerful mask slipped a little. “Don’t leave on my account. You were here first.” His eyes were hard to make out in the moonlight, but Lorenz swore they dropped to his waist, and the clear skew of his arms behind his back. He nodded to a nearby bench. “Mind if I sit?”_

_“You hardly need my permission,” Lorenz blustered. Claude just raised an eyebrow at him. “That is… no, I don’t mind.”_

Lorenz makes it as far as his room—just outside, hovering in front of the door with his hand half-resting ont he knob—before his curiosity gets the better of him. He glances to the right and left. The hall is deserted on either side, and he knows for a fact their rightmost neighbors aren’t home: the Blue Lions class is out in the field today, per Professor Manuela’s put-upon complaints last night when Lorenz was helping her organize the medicine storeroom.

He shouldn’t. He should leave well enough alone. But somehow, despite his common sense lecturing him strictly about privacy and boundaries—two things Claude himself hardly holds in the highest esteem—Lorenz leaves his satchel just inside his own room before going to knock on Claude’s door.

For a moment there’s nothing. Lorenz strains his ears for the slightest sound, but only silence meets his prying curiosity. Then—

“Mmf? Who’s’it?”

The sound of Claude’s voice, rough around the edges with sleep, strikes a coil of white-hot shame through Lorenz’s chest. He shouldn’t have knocked. He should have left him to his rest, instead of prying and making a nuisance of himself. But he’s here now, so he straightens his shoulders and says, as disaffectedly as possible, “It’s Lorenz.” He hesitates, then adds, “I came to see if you needed anything.”

He’s barely shut his teeth around the last syllable when the door creaks open and a bleary-eyed, tousle-haired Claude pokes his head out into the hallway. Lorenz can’t make out much in the dark funk of the room, but he appears to be wrapped in his duvet; it hangs loosely around his slender frame, exposing a smooth, hairless chest and a deeply-notched collarbone. An unfamiliar rune hangs around his neck on a fine silver chain, catching the light as it swings against his bare skin. “Lorenz,” he croaks. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m sorry to—to disturb you,” Lorenz stammers. He isn’t sure whether to look at him directly or not, and after a bit of back and forth—chest to face and back again—he settles on staring at an errant curl of dark hair sticking out over his right ear. “Professor Byleth said you were ill.”

“Did they? That’s nice of them. I eagerly anticipate the endless parade of well-wishers, then, yourself being the first, naturally.” He sounds uncustomarily snappish, and Lorenz withdraws slightly, unsure what to say—but Claude sighs and leans against the doorframe, forestalling his haphazard apologies. “No, I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’m… out of sorts, clearly.”

“If there’s anything I can do…” Lorenz ventures hesitantly.

“Not particularly,” Claude says with a tight little grimace. It sharpens into teeth against his lip as he pinches his eyes shut and seems to ride out a wave of pain, knuckles white on the doorframe. “Sorry, I’m… not exactly good company right now.”

“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Lorenz says quickly, alarmed at his obvious discomfort. “Here, let’s get you back to bed.”

“You don’t have to,” Claude begins, but he allows Lorenz to take his arm and shuffle him back to the mattress. The sheets are a wreck, half-pulled off on one corner, so Lorenz straightens them out and tucks them in properly while Claude huddles in a miserable lump in the center of the mattress, watching him with vague amusement. “Am I really so pathetic that you must play nursemaid, Lorenz?”

“Hush. If you refuse to tell me what you need, I can at least see to your creature comforts.” He casts a despairing glance at the wreck of Claude’s room—books everywhere, papers scribbled over with notes and formulas and ciphers, a glass beaker with an inch of dull brown liquid perched precariously at the corner of his desk—and forcibly tears himself away. “I’ll bring up dinner in an hour or so.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.”

“Even so.” Lorenz sniffs, and permits himself to crack the window slightly to appease the stodgy closed-up feel of the room. It’s chilly out, but the waft of cool air does wonders, and it’s easy enough to poke the fireplace’s low-lying coals back to life. “Until later, Claude.”

He thinks he hears a murmured _thank you_ on his way out, but he brushes it off as wishful thinking and heads for the infirmary.

><

_The night before last, the rose garden._

“Mind if I sit?”

Lorenz looks to him, startled out of pretense. “You hardly need my permission,” he blusters, unsure how to react to such a direct request. Claude is fond of toying with him, making him second-guess and double back until he’s forgotten the original argument, or has left it behind in favor of a new one. Such an earnest, straightforward question from Claude is almost unheard of. “That is… no, I don’t mind.”

Claude sits. Not quite close enough that Lorenz feels uncomfortable, just enough to brush up against the invisible barrier of his personal space. “So,” Claude says, thumbs twiddling between his knees, “couldn’t sleep, huh?”

“No.” Reluctantly, Lorez unfolds his arms from behind his back and sets his journal on the bench at his left side, hoping Claude won’t see it.

No such luck.

“Working on homework?”

“Ah… no. A personal project.” Lorenz’s cheeks warm, and he says a little prayer of thanks that it’s too dark to see the ugly flush crawling up from beneath his collar. Seeing that Claude will not be dissuaded from asking for more details, he decides to beat him to the punch. “I write a little, sometimes. Nothing very good.”

“What’s that? Something less than perfection from Lorenz Hellman Gloucester?” Claude teases. And it _is_ a tease, no more and no less; no mockery, just a bit of ribbing between friends. Lorenz’s breath comes oddly short in his chest. _Are we friends?_

“I have many faults, Claude, of which I am certain you’re aware.”

“Just as many strengths, I’d wager.”

Lorenz huffs. “I will not be sweet-talked into telling you any more,” he warns, and can’t help smiling when Claude laughs and slumps back against the bench.

“All right, all right. Sorry to tease you. I wasn’t lying about that last bit, though. The strengths bit.”

“Weren’t you?” Lorenz inquires, an instinctive frisson of bitterness blackening his tongue. He regrets it almost immediately, and wastes no time in saying so. “Forgive me, that was rude.”

“Hey, it’s all right. I’m the one who disturbed your private time.”

Claude leans back in his seat, ankle crossed over knee, hands folded against his belly. He’s in his uniform, but the front is undone more than usual, exposing the smooth golden fabric of his undergarment. He wears it all the time, as far as Lorenz has been able to tell. He wonders if it’s some sort of specially-made armor, or if he just enjoys the security of compression. Lorenz looks down at his own front, the lacy ruffle of his shirt hiding the corset he’d put on underneath before venturing outside. Despite the dark, he wonders if Claude, keen-eyed as any bird of prey, has noticed the slightly exaggerated curve of his waist under his breeches.

“Are you looking forward to the ball?” Claude asks suddenly, wrenching him from his private musings.

“I suppose.” Lorenz bites his tongue against the glum tone dragging down his voice. “It will certainly be an evening full of revelry.”

“I guess so.” Claude cocks his head at him. “I would’ve thought you’d be more excited.”

“And why is that?”

“I dunno. The chance to dress up and show off your dance moves? A hundred ladies eager to dance with the heir of Gloucester? Boozy punch? Take your pick.”

“I think you overestimate my charms slightly,” Lorenz mutters. “I am afraid such affairs don’t quite live up to the expectations of my idealistic childhood self, although perhaps this one will be slightly more bearable.”

“ _And why is that_?” Claude echoes, laughter in his voice.

“My father isn’t here, for one thing,” Lorenz surprises himself by saying. He covers his mouth as soon as he’s said it, eyes glancing around instinctively. “Forgive me, that was improper.”

“Improper? Not at all. I’m always in favor of a little… liberation.” Claude unfolds his arms along the back of the bench to either side, thumb barely brushing the back of Lorenz’s shirt. Lorenz holds his breath, waiting for him to discover the stiff boning of the corset underneath; but if he does feel it, he says nothing about it, only, “Tell me, Lorenz, what _were_ your expectations as a child?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He squirms slightly in his seat, both sheltered by the dark and exposed by it. It feels so much easier to pry honesty from the guarded furrows of his ribcage, to expose his tender, private longings to a man he barely knows. Well. Not _barely_ knows—but Lorenz can admit to himself that he has lately longed to know him _better_. “The things any silly child dreams of, I suppose. Wearing frilly ballgowns, dripping in jewels, being the belle of the ball.”

There’s a beat of surprised silence. “I… would not have guessed that,” Claude says at last. His voice is carefully curated, a silky-soft gentility that would not be out of place in a fine museum.

“Like I said, it’s foolish.” Lorenz snorts and crosses one leg elegantly over the other. “I once made the mistake of asking my father for a party frock. Suffice to say my illusions were swiftly rectified.”

Claude made a commiserating sort of hum in the back of his throat, almost a purr. “Sometimes we aren’t what our parents expect.”

Lorenz glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His house leader appears to be staring into the middle distance, agate eyes turned dark as black opals in the starlight. He feels on the cusp of some great discovery, as though the ground beneath his feet is sculpted from wet clay, bound to crumble underneath him at the slightest misstep. _Proceed carefully._ “That is true,” he says at last, as diplomatically as he knows how; which is very. “Despite their best efforts.”

“You’re a decent fellow, Lorenz,” Claude says abruptly.

“I—er, thank you.”

Claude draws in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out in a great exhale, a sigh of satisfaction. “I think I’ve found what I was looking for. Goodnight, Lorenz. Don’t stay up too late—I’ll know if you do.”

Lorenz swallows and drops his gaze as Claude stands, stretching his arms over his head, sturdy shoulders silhouetted against the dark sky. “Goodnight, Claude,” he murmurs, and doesn’t remember to ask what Claude was looking for in the first place until he’s already gone.

><

_The present, Garreg Mach infirmary._

“Sorry, dear, it’s patient confidentiality. I can’t say anything, nor do I wish to. It’s simply none of your business.”

Lorenz reins himself in and smiles as politely as he’s able. “Professor Manuela, I’m not asking you for a diagnosis. I only want to help make him comfortable. Is there nothing you can recommend? No teas or tinctures?”

Professor Manuela sighs. “He refused my offer of medicine based on previous ill effects, but I suppose a little herbal tea wouldn’t hurt. _If_ you can convince him to take it.” She rises from her desk and goes to rummage in the cabinet sitting against the wall. “It’s delicate, so be careful not to overbrew.”

“Understood.”

She spoons a bit of the tea from a glass jar into a paper cone and folds it up for transport. “This will make two pots. If you need more, now you know where to get it.” She arches an eyebrow at him as she passes it over. “Take care to use discretion, Lorenz.”

He blinks at her, unsure of her meaning. “I am always discreet,” he sniffs. “But I will take it under advisement.”

“Hmm. See that you do.” She flicks her fingers at him. “Run along, then. If your aim is to secure yourself a place at von Riegan’s right hand, I must say you’re doing a splendid job of it.”

“You mistake me, madam. I simply wish to help a friend. Thank you for your assistance tonight, Professor, it’s been truly invaluable.” Lorenz bows politely and ducks out of the infirmary, clutching the packet of tea to his chest. When he lifts it to his nose it smells pleasantly of peppermint, with a slight undertone of anise and ginger.

_At the very least it may help his appetite_. Satisfied, Lorenz tucks it away in an inner pocket of his jacket and takes himself to the dining hall to procure dinner.

It is early yet for most of the monastery to be sitting down to dinner, but the Blue Lions have returned from their excursion and the dining hall is filled to the brim with their boisterous energy. Lorenz gives them a wide berth, collecting a tray of some of Claude’s favorite foods. He also begs a tea service and a few mint pastilles from the herbalist. Thus armed, he slips out again and heads for Claude’s room with singular determination.

A softly grunted _come in_ summons him at the door, and he juggles the tray carefully as he backs into the room. Claude is where he left him, curled miserably against the mountain of pillows currently shoved against the headboard. He offers a wan smile and not much more as Lorenz sets the tray on his desk and produces a pastille.

“For your stomach. Manuela gave me a special tea that she said would help, if you wish me to brew it for you.”

“A special tea?” Claude asks, voice slurred around the semi-hard candy in his mouth. “What’s in it?”

“Just herbs.” Lorenz opens the little paper packet and shakes a bit into the palm of his hand to inspect. “A few grains of star anise, some dried ginger, peppermint… hmm, and chamomile. An unusual blend, but it will be easy on your stomach at least.”

Claude laughs quietly into his pillow. “She didn’t say what it was for?”

“No.” Lorenz tips a generous helping of the blend into the teapot and, in lieu of a proper trivet, conjures a bit of fire in the palm of his hand to heat the water. “She was quite tightlipped, but assured me this would ease some of your discomfort.”

“How good of her,” Claude hums. “You’ve certainly wormed your way into her good graces, haven’t you?”

Lorenz frowns, concentrating on not overheating the teapot. Shattering the ceramic and spilling hot water all over himself would not be a very soothing evening for his patient. “As I’m sure you already know, Professor Byleth assigned me to assist Professor Manuela in the infirmary in order to…” He trails off, mouth souring as if he’s tasted a lemon. “ _Improve my empathy levels_.”

“Well, it seems to be working.” Claude reluctantly sits up as Lorenz brings over the pot and a cup in its little generic saucer. Nothing so fancy as _he_ would have chosen to present his house leader, but needs must. “You never would’ve brought me tea and supper of your own volition before.”

“How would you know?” Lorenz asks airily. “You’ve never been sick before.”

“True. Kind of a one-off. I hope.” Claude wraps his hands around the proffered teacup and watches as Lorenz takes it upon himself to pour. “It’s not usually this bad.”

Lorenz blinks. “What do you mean, usually?”

“How long have you been working for Manuela?” Claude asks instead of answering outright. He blows across the surface of the tea, and sweet, aromatic steam rises around his face like a delicate wreathe. Lorenz puts the teapot down before he drops it.

“Almost a month, I believe. Why?”

“Have you never served anyone this sort of tea before?”

Lorenz hems and haws a moment. “Variations of it, perhaps. Chamomile is a common tea for soothing anxiety and insomnia, as well as relaxing muscles. Ginger and mint for stomach ailments. Anise for the same.”

“I’ll give you a hint. Nothing is wrong with my stomach.”

“Claude, I did not come here to play guessing games. You may keep your discomforts to yourself, I have no wish to pry.” He adds a little more tea to the pot and checks the temperature from the outside. “Drink your tea. The dinner I brought will keep.”

“You’re really not curious?” Claude murmurs after a delicate sip. “I thought you were keen to learn everything about me that you possibly could.”

“Not _everything_ possible, Claude, don’t be ridiculous.” Without a task to tend to, Lorenz dithers in the center of the room for a moment before delicately lowering himself to the edge of the bed, careful to keep a proper distance between himself and his house leader. “I only wished to ascertain whether you were a trustworthy heir to the Alliance.”

“Hmmm.” Claude slurps his tea obnoxiously—on purpose, Lorenz is sure. He refuses to rise to the bait. “And what are your findings?”

Lorenz presses his lips together briefly. “Initially I was mistrustful of you, as you know. Your motives, your… intentions. But time in your acquaintance has reassured some of my fears.”

“Only some?” Claude teases.

“You still have many secrets, von Riegan. I will reserve my final judgement until I am absolutely certain none of them will affect the Alliance negatively.”

Claude sips his tea quietly. He doesn’t speak, not right away, but Lorenz can feel him looking at him, green eyes boring into the side of his face as if hoping to unearth the unspoken things from his tongue. “That doesn’t sound like something Count Gloucester would approve of.”

Lorenz flinches. “I am not my father’s lapdog,” he says, more snappishly than he means to. He curls his hands together in his lap until the knuckles go white with strain. “I am capable of keeping _some_ things for myself.”

“So I’m beginning to see.” Claude finishes the tea and sets it aside. “I misjudged you, Lorenz. I’m sorry.”

Lorenz sniffs and leans forward to pour another cup. “Perhaps you have. But let us not pretend that I am entirely innocent of that same crime.”

“Why, Lorenz, that was very nearly an apology.” Claude cocks his head against the pillows, still watching him. His scrutiny almost feels like a physical touch caressing Lorenz’s skin—his hands tremble slightly around the teapot, but he manages to finish the pour without making a mess. Small mercies. “Is that what this is? Penance of some kind?”

“Claude,” Lorenz sighs, “I swear to you I have no ulterior motive.” Then, muttering under his breath, “Why does everyone seem to think me so manipulative?”

“Hey, hey. I didn’t say that.” Claude’s voice darkens, along with his brow. He reaches out and touches Lorenz’s arm. “Who said that?”

“Professor Manuela implied…”

“Professor Manuela is a talented woman, but prone to leaping to conclusions. Ha, just look at her arguments with Hanneman—both of ‘em talking in circles around each other, never actually listening to what the other has to say.” Claude hums. “Maybe we could learn a little something from that, actually.”

His hand is still on Lorenz’s wrist. He looks a little better than he had ten minutes ago, though Lorenz isn’t sure whether it’s the tea or the distraction from his… whatever it is. “Learning something?” he echoes, in a strained attempt to alleviate the pounding of his heart. “In an academic setting? Goddess forfend.”

Claude laughs aloud, startled into it, raucous as a flock of doves taking flight unexpectedly against an early morning sky. “I know, right? Terrible. Ugh.” His laughter creases into a grimace and he tips his head back against the pillow with a soft groan. “I hate this.”

“Are you all right? Should I fetch Manuela?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just have to grin and bear it.” Claude sighs and pats his arm before withdrawing. Lorenz tries not to feel the loss too keenly. “It’s just monthlies. Nothing dreadfully serious, but _goddess_ , sometimes it feels like my insides are trying to rearrange themselves without my say-so.”

Lorenz feels his face go hot, and struggles heroically to ignore it. “I… am sorry. Will the tea help, at least?”

“Hopefully, yes.” Claude lifts a hand to his sternum and fingers the little silver shape hanging on its chain. “This fends off the worst of it, most of the time, but it’s an imperfect system. The chain broke in the last battle and I didn’t find it until later. Now my body is trying to make up for lost time.”

“It sounds like you need a stronger chain.” Lorenz reaches out, unthinking, and pulls his hand back at the last second. “Forgive me, may I…?”

Claude dips his chin in assent. “Just don’t take it off.”

Lorenz picks up the little rune and holds it delicately away from his skin, examining its chain. “Surely Hilda could fashion you something workable?”

“Maybe. Hilda’s better at _pretty_ than _permanent_.” Claude purses his lips in an odd little half-smile. “You’re not as put off by this as I thought you’d be.”

“Why would I be put off? It is a simple biological fact. Regrettably the sort that causes you pain.” Lorenz sets the rune back down carefully. “Does it have to be around your neck, or simply on your person?”

“Against my skin. The necklace usually works, just. Not always.” He reaches for his empty teacup and waggles it. “Another serving, if you’d be so kind?”

“Certainly.” Perfectly content to play manservant, Lorenz pours him another cup and holds it between his palms a moment to bring the water up to temperature. “Alas, I have no s-siblings,” he says, stammering over the word _sisters_ —clearly that has less bearing on the visitation of monthlies than he’d once assumed—“so I have no heritage of family wisdom to pass on, but if you require anything to ease your discomfort you have only to ask.”

Claude’s eyes crinkle gently. “You’ve already done a lot. There is… well.”

“Yes?”

“There’s an old trick my mother taught me: if you heat up a small bag of dry grain, it’ll hold the heat and it feels nice against the soreness. But I asked Manuela for a rice bag and she just looked at me like I was crazy.” Claude’s eyes drop to Lorenz’s hands. “You’ve been heating the water with just your hands?”

“Ah! Yes. A simple fire spell, pulled back to avoid actual flames. It’s quite a useful cantrip, I—oh, I see.” He feels himself grow even redder, wondering what exactly Claude is asking for. _Where is ‘the soreness’ he speaks of?_ “I’m—er, not averse to… helping you, if you just tell me what to do…”

“Nothing drastic,” Claude says cheerfully, as though he hasn’t noticed Lorenz’s screaming heart rate and beet-red complexion. “Would it be dangerous to heat up a pillow? Something I could just put on my stomach…?”

“I could try,” Lorenz says doubtfully, relaxing somewhat. _Just the stomach? That isn’t so bad_. “I wouldn’t want to set anything on fire.”

“Well, that’s all right. It was worth a shot.”

“If… if it’s not too forward…”

“Nothing you could say would be too forward at this point, I think,” Claude chuckles.

“Perhaps.” Lorenz presses his palms together, letting a low, slow heat build between them. “I could put my hands right… right on you. If that would help.”

Slowly, Claude’s smile fades, then shifts to something else: something syrupy and warm, like a mug of cocoa on a cold day. “Why, Lorenz, that _is_ rather forward of you.”

“Yes, well!” Lorenz huffs, standing, “It was just an idea.”

“No, hey, c’mere.” Claude motions him back down again, punctuated by a flash of white teeth as he grits his jaw. “I’m just about desperate enough to try anything. I won’t ask it of you, but if you’re offering…”

Lorenz regards him a moment. He seems in earnest, his usual lackadaisy strained at the edges like a canvas pulled too taut against the frame. That expression, more than anything, hardens his resolve. He concentrates warmth in the palms of his hands. “Show me where.”

Claude sets his tea down unfinished, and peels back the cocoon he’s wrapped himself in. Underneath he’s wearing a loose night-shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and a pair of loose sleep pants that wrinkle gregariously around his knees, exposing lean hairy calves. Lorenz keeps his eyes firmly on the backs of his own hands and lets Claude guide him by the wrists. They end up flat against Claude’s lower belly, just south of his navel. The skin is smooth and surprisingly soft, a layer of fat over hard muscle.

“Ahhhhh,” Claude hisses.

“Too warm?”

“No, just right.”

Lorenz tries to concentrate on the spell rather than the softness of Claude’s stomach, but it’s difficult. He turns slightly, knee bent on the mattress against Claude’s outer thigh. Slowly, Claude’s grip on his wrists relaxes; his face smooths and his eyelids grow heavy and hazy. Minutes stretch out long and unattended. Lorenz’s shoulders are stiff from the awkward position, but he feels strangely relaxed all the same. Claude’s thumb still rests against his pinky finger, and once in a while it strokes back and forth, like a cat’s tail twitching idly in the sun.

It takes him a while to notice that Claude has fallen asleep. Gradually Lorenz lets the spell fade, and sags a bit in the aftermath, feeling dizzy. He should have kept better track time; outside the sky is dark, and his stomach groans and grumbles, reminding him that he failed to get his own dinner.

In the bed, half-covered in the duvet, Claude sleeps with his mouth slightly open and his brow slightly furrowed in the center. He’s too young to frown while he sleeps.

The idle thought startles Lorenz out of his stupor. He rises, tucks the bedding around Claude’s frame, and tiptoes from the room in pursuit of his own bed. Despite his exhaustion, despite the tremor in his hands from pushing the boundaries of his magic reserves, he lays awake for some time, wondering.

><><

_Five and a half years later, the War Room._

“Thank you everyone, meeting adjourned for today.”

It’s barely three in the afternoon, but everyone is quick to rise and make themselves scarce, casual conversation humming to life at the unexpected boon of being released early. Lorenz does not join them. He takes his time assembling his notes, one eye on the man sitting across the table. He’s barely moved in the last hour, sitting at an unnaturally erect angle, elbow planted on the table as though it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Byleth passes by, hand to Claude’s shoulder briefly as they lean down and whisper something in his ear. Claude makes some sort of reply and waves them off, face creasing briefly with stifled pain.

The door swings shut softly on its heavy oiled hinges, and Lorenz gets to his feet. Claude, still making a show of staring at the map spread in front him, gives no indication that he hears Lorenz’s stilted footsteps clacking against the stone floor, but when Lorenz puts a hand to his shoulder he leans into it unflinching. Unsurprised.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” Lorenz asks softly. It is an indulgence—their relationship is still undefined, an amorphous unspoken thing that exists only in lingering glances and quiet smiles, the occasional touch of hands and lips in private. Declarations and pet names are not for men like them, upon whose shoulders rests the world. But Claude does not protest it, even seems to melt into it, tipping his head back into Lorenz’s hand with a little smile.

“Not really. I tried to hold out, but.” He sighs, brow creased in pain, sweat beading along his hairline. “Not today.”

“Well then. Let’s see what we can do.” Lorenz offers him a hand, and does not flinch at the punishing grip Claude exacts as he pulls him to his feet.

“Are you going to kiss it better?” Claude teases. Another infraction of their silent code. There are eyes and ears everywhere, even in empty rooms, but it seems that pain has made a mortal man of him.

“You used to get like this in school once in a while.” Matter-of-fact, as though he’s discussing the weather, Lorenz loops an arm through Claude’s and makes for the door, taking slow, premediated steps just shy of his full gait. “Let’s get you back to your rooms; we can stop by the infirmary on the way.”

“I don’t need healing, it doesn’t do shit for this sort of thing.”

As if Lorenz could forget! “I know that, but Manuela has a very nice herbal tea, if you’ll recall. I don’t have any on hand in my rooms so we’ll have to take a detour.”

At his side, Claude seems to slump with relief, leaning a little harder into his side. Victory. Lorenz preens inwardly and holds steady against Claude’s weight. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“I only want to ensure your comfort. It won’t do for the Leader of the Alliance to suffer when it can be so easily prevented.”

“Mmhmm. And this has nothing to do with your own desires.”

Lorenz feels his stomach twist, and he sputters as they round the corner to the infirmary. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t like seeing your friends in pain, do you.” It isn’t a question.

“Surely no one _enjoys_ it? I am hardly unique in that.” They are nearly to the door. Lorenz smooths a hand down Claude’s back absentmindedly. “Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.”

Manuela isn’t in, but he still remembers where everything is. He peruses the herbs in their little glass jars and measures out the ingredients into a fold of paper; then tucks it safely into his breast pocket and returns to find Claude nibbling his lower lip distractedly, left hand pressed discreetly up against his sash.

“Rooms first, or baths?” Lorenz inquires.

“Rooms, please,” Claude says tightly. “I’d prefer to be alone right now.”

“Of course.” Lorenz lets the sting of rejection roll through him and pass by unremarked, but Claude sees it anyway.

“I didn’t mean _you_ , sweetheart,” he murmurs under his breath, just out of earshot of a passing guard. Lorenz grips his arm and tries not to blush. Claude chuckles even so. “You are always welcome at my side.”

“Claude,” Lorenz chides softly. His chest aches. He didn’t mean for this to become so fraught, a confession on the cusp of spilling forth.

“What? It’s true. If you haven’t recognized as much by now I’m apparently a much better liar than I thought.”

Lorenz decides it’s in his best interest to ignore him, and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. By the mercy of the goddess, or just sheer dumb luck, they meet no one on the way and arrive at Claude’s rooms unmolested. They were once the living quarters of a younger cardinal, but with the church in disarray and the Alliance gaining a foothold in the shell of Garreg Mach, it was decided—despite Claude’s resistance—that the General of their campaign should not be reduced to sleeping in a room meant for a young student. Lorenz keeps his own quarters down the hall, less grand but still perfectly comfortable. The proximity is reassuring. A remnant of old times, like a grain of sugar caught between the teeth.

Once inside the bedroom, the last of Claude’s defenses drop away and he lowers himself to the bed with a groan. Lorenz turns his back to give him some privacy and sets to making tea. Despite the fact that they’re at war, little luxuries have been afforded in deference to rank: a silver kettle, a trivet, a tea service. Lorenz kneels at the hearth and lights the tinder arranged there with a snap of his fingers.

While the water boils, Lorenz watches the flames and listens to the sounds of cloth shuffling and water splashing in the washbasin. Claude’s bare feet move soft as silk against the stone floor, but Lorenz is as attuned to them as to the erstwhile humming of Thyrsus’ unpredictable energy, and he’s keenly aware of the exact moment Claude returns from the water closet and crawls into bed.

“Your tea,” he says when he is sure Claude is decent. He turns, tray in hand. Claude lays in bed as he suspected, propped up just slightly on the pillows. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and the duvet is pulled only to his waist. Lorenz coughs lightly. “Are you not chilled?”

“I won’t be, pretty soon,” Claude says affably, accepting the cup Lorenz hands him. “If you’re amenable.”

Lorenz arches an eyebrow. “I know for a fact that you’re in possession of a rice bag, Claude von Riegan. Shall I fetch it for you?”

Claude bites his lip and widens his eyes— _Master Tactician, indeed_. “But I much prefer your hands, my dear. They regulate the heat better.”

Lorenz sighs heavily, charmed against his will. He starts on the buttons of his doublet. Claude grins. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like the cat that got the canary.” He shrugs the garment off and hangs it carefully on the back of the desk chair. Then he begins rolling up his cuffs. “Are you going to take my advice this time?”

“Which advice is that?”

“Let Hilda make you a new chain. Or better yet, tattoo the damn thing on your skin.” He straightens his sleeves, tucked now above the elbow, and leans down to touch the little silver rune lying in its nest of hair. Claude’s chest is broader and stronger than it was just a few years ago. A rather fantastic pelt of hair has grown up upon it like a field of wildflowers, interrupted only by two thin bands of scar tissue beneath his pectoral muscles. He takes a deep breath even as Lorenz reaches for him, and his fingers graze warm skin. Lorenz blushes. “You are incorrigible.”

“And you’re a dear.” Claude enfolds his hand over Lorenz’s fingers, coaxing his palm to his breast. “Will you kiss me?”

Lorenz holds his breath a moment, dizzy. They’ve never been this close before, have never touched one another apart from hands and waists. He can feel the steady beat of Claude’s heart in his chest; can smell the faint herbal tang of the tea half-finished in its cup. He plucks the fine china out of Claude’s hand and sets it on the bedside table. From there it’s only natural to complete the movement and lean down to kiss him.

His lips are warm and taste of chamomile. They part, and meet, and part again, an addictive cycle of back and forth. Lorenz keeps a firm hand on the reins, holding himself back to a chaste and steady walking gait, but Claude teases his lips open with his tongue and it takes all his self-control not to sink into him. Instead Lorenz eases back and breaks away with a soft, wet sound.

“You’re distracting me,” he chides hoarsely. “Lie back.”

“Yes, dear.” Smiling like he’s just won a prize, lips and cheeks sweetly pink, Claude leans back against the pillows and watches Lorenz situate himself. As gracefully as he can manage, Lorenz crawls over his legs and sits with his back to the wall, Claude’s knees bent over his lap. He rubs his palms together slowly, conjuring heat.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.

“I will.”

Claude’s belly is hairier than it was half a decade ago, perhaps broader, but still soft over muscle as Lorenz spreads his palms against it. He giggles a little and then sighs, almost a moan of relief.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Tickles a bit.”

“Sorry.” Lorenz firms his touch just a little, careful not to put too much pressure. Claude puts his hand over Lorenz’s and presses down a little more. “Enough heat?”

“Just right.” Claude shuts his eyes and sighs, a deep exhale that Lorenz can feel in his sympathetic bones.

Lorenz isn’t sure what sort of conversation one makes while playing the part of a human hot water bottle, but the silence between them isn’t strained or awkward. Claude doesn’t sleep, but he’s in a sort of half-doze, and so Lorenz is left to entertain himself. He monitors his mana carefully, easing off the heat once in a while. In the interim he moves his hands slightly, almost a massage; he waits to be told off, but Claude just hums approval, so he spreads his fingers wider and rubs slow circles on his lower belly, left hand subsiding to grip his waist.

“Feels good,” Claude mumbles, shifting slightly in his lap. “Can you… a little lower?”

“Mhmm.” Lorenz loosens the drawstring of his sleep pants and resumes the slow circling massage, dipping beyond the waistband just slightly. Not _indiscreetly_ , just low enough that he can feel Claude’s body relaxing further. He curls his fingers in toward his palm and runs the backs of his knuckles down from his navel to the waistband of his smalls. “Like this?”

“S’perfect. Mm.” Another shifting of his legs. Despite his heavy-lidded eyes, Claude’s breath comes a little quicker in his chest, and his lashes flicker as his gaze flits from Lorenz’s hand to his face. “Love your hands, sweetheart.”

Lorenz flushes hot, almost as hot as the warmth in his hand. “You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like?”

“‘Course.” Claude hums and arches a little into the next circular pass of his palm. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Lorenz doesn’t stop. He draws his hand in wider circles, slow as cold syrup, testing Claude’s invitation with each pass. His pinkie finger teases against the hem of his smalls. Once. Twice. Deep enough that he starts to feel the coarse texture of hair against his fingers, thicker and curlier than the hair below his navel. Claude’s thighs widen a little more. His eyes are shut now, but he’s smiling. Lorenz bites his lip, torn between scolding him and giving him exactly what he wants.

“You know,” Claude murmurs suddenly, as Lorenz dithers over the invisible barrier between belly and groin, “I’ve heard orgasms can help alleviate the pain, but I’ve never had a chance to try it for myself.”

Lorenz chokes on air, and his rhythm stammers to a halt. Claude pokes one eye open.

“Sorry, too much?”

“No, it’s… fine.” Lorenz turns away from that knowing green gaze, letting his hair fall in front of his face. “Shut your eyes, Claude. You’re supposed to be resting.”

Claude huffs but does as he’s told. “Lorenz, if I’ve offended—”

“Claude.” He punctuates the sudden stillness with the pluck of laces, the parting of cloth. “I am at your service, my dear. As always.”

His left hand spreads against Claude’s lower belly, steady and warm; his right slips beneath Claude’s smalls and cups between his legs. He’s never touched him here before. He feels clumsy, navigating a forest in the blind of night, but never let it be said that Lorenz Hellman Gloucester is a coward.

He proceeds boldly, if not exactly tactically, continuing the same sort of circular massaging motion. Wetness slicks his fingers readily. The sound of it echoes every movement of his fingers, the soft sighs Claude can’t help releasing. Despite how warm Lorenz’s hands are, Claude’s cunt is hotter—and hotter still when he follows that slippery groove to his hole. Two fingers press in easily and Claude chokes.

“Lorenz, fuck—”

“Shall I stop?” Lorenz asks calmly. More calmly than he feels; his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his temple.

“No. Goddess, don’t. Don’t stop for anything.”

He feels a strange, heady power coursing through him, burning through his nerves like flame to tinder. Despite his inexperience, Claude is putty in his hands. He moans when Lorenz curls his fingers. Shakes when he withdraws and pushes back in with a _squelch_. The wetness of him smears in the palm of his hand and slicks between his fingers as his wrist rubs against Claude’s erection, fingers pressed as deep as they can go. Claude whimpers and presses his cheek against the pillow.

“Lorenz,” he breathes, thighs quivering, parted. “Lorenz…”

“Don’t worry about making a mess,” Lorenz croons, left hand kneading below his navel in slow, even strokes. “I’ll take care of you.”

“ _Ah_.” Claude’s knuckles grow pale against the sheets. “Please… more.”

A third finger slips in alongside the first two with hardly any resistance. Lorenz is bloody to the wrist, but Claude’s back is arching in a perfect curve and his insides clasp him tightly, so Lorenz works his fingers into him as best he can and holds steady when climax wracks Claude to pieces like a storm held in the vessel of his lap.

“All right?” he murmurs, pausing his left hand’s ministrations to reach up and stroke Claude’s cheek. Claude turns into his, breathless, kissing the knuckles even as Lorenz draws away.

“Yes,” he breathes. A shameful whisper. Lorenz’s thumb circles his cock, slow and firm and stubborn, and Claude cries out. “Lorenz, _fuck_ —!”

He’s balancing on the edge of a knife, and it only takes a moment to drop off one side or the other. And drop he does, loudly and with great enthusiasm. Lorenz isn’t self-absorbed enough to think he’s that skilled already, but pride warms him anyway as he fucks Claude open on three fingers, thumb tucked up against the hard slippery shape of his prick. Salt and iron fill his nose, but he isn’t put off. It’s nothing like the battlefield, strewn with gore and the sounds and smells of the dying. It’s messy and crude and _alive_ —Claude is _so_ alive, bright and burning in his lap, every helpless twitch of his thighs rubbing up against the hardness forming in his own trousers.

Lorenz coaxes a third climax out of him before Claude goes limp and clumsily pushes his hand away. He lets the warmth spell die and tips his head back against the wall. His fingers and hand are stained a gory red that splatters up his forearm, and he holds it aloft slightly to keep from staining Claude’s skin any more than it already is. “Feel better?” he murmurs.

“Much.” Claude lets his hand drift to Lorenz’s lap, rubbing him slyly through his clothes. “Need a little help?”

“A—a moment. Let me…”

Moving stiffly, Lorenz wriggles out from under him and steps into the adjacent water closet to rinse his hand. It will need a more thorough washing, but right now Claude is his priority. He fills a basin with clean water and swirls his hand through it to warm it before returning to his bedside.

Claude is all but half-asleep as Lorenz wipes him clean and resettles his clothing with a fresh cloth between his legs. The sheets remained unscathed, but Lorenz’s trousers did not escape the bloodbath, so he slips them off and sets them aside to soak in cool water. When he turns back, he finds crystalline green eyes watching him through dark lashes, and a smug smile drawing him inexorably into bed.

“Let me help you with that,” Claude whispers, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t have to,” Lorenz begins even as he arches into Claude’s touch. “You are in pain—”

“After that? Not in the least.” Claude drags his knuckles along the shape of him through his smallclothes and Lorenz quivers, face turned into the pillow. “Is it all right if I touch you like this, sweetheart?”

“Please,” Lorenz murmurs shyly. Through the veil of hair falling over his face he watches Claude’s expression, the wrinkle of focus between his brows, the dewy flush of orgasm still glowing in his cheeks. He traps his tongue between his teeth and his fingers curl around the shaft, archer’s callouses dragging against sensitive skin. Lorenz trembles and tries to hold still, not draw into himself in embarrassment the way he longs to.

“You are so lovely,” Claude whispers. “So good to me. What would I do without you, hm?” His lips brush the shell of Lorenz’s ear. His hand curls tighter, pulling the knot of arousal taut as a strung bow. “Let me make you feel good. Let yourself go, Lorenz.”

The string snaps. Lorenz gasps and buries his cries into the pillow as his body jerks like a marionette in Claude’s hands, entirely at his mercy. Claude is murmuring soothing words, but he cannot make them out. All he can feel is Claude’s lips on his cheek, Claude’s hand around his erection as it slowly softens, the gentle touch of cloth wiping the spend from his skin. Clumsy in the wake of climax, he burrows into Claude’s arms and lets the beat of his heart lull him into a doze.

When he rouses, the room is dark and chilled. The fire is out, and the sun has long since set; but the man in his arms is as warm as a fresh-laid hearth, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the cold. Lorenz presses a kiss to his shoulder and closes his eyes. He’ll stoke the fire soon. Just another few minutes.


End file.
